


Dead Men and Crows

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Three-Eyed Raven!Bran, hurt/comfort elements, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 15:25:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12015618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: They sit across from one another in silence, as they would sit while discussing terms of surrender, and Bran keeps has hand upon Theon's wrist, tapping in rhythm, feeling the pulse beneath the skin.You are alive, he says, or thinks, sometimes he cannot tell, just as he cannot tell what that means. He takes two of Theon's fingers and guides them to his own wrist, knowing Theon will feel the blood better than he can.





	Dead Men and Crows

**Author's Note:**

> Finally had an idea for the thing I've always kinda sorta semi-secretly shipped. A deeply weird idea, but still. This is probably showverse, but could also be bookverse future fic, it's all very vague. But showverse ages, obvs.

Theon knocks this time, not bursting in and dragging Bran from sleep – Bran lies awake in any case, he sleeps little. “Come in,” he says.

The door swings open and Theon enters, head bowed, more servant than conqueror. Bran looks at him blankly, and he closes the door behind him, almost hidden in darkness. But he is here, Bran can sense him, brother and traitor and broken slave and reborn man, all of him, once more in his room.

Hesitantly, he approaches the bed, and once he comes close enough Bran takes ahold his wrist, gently guiding him down onto the bed. They sit across from one another in silence, as they would sit while discussing terms of surrender, and Bran keeps has hand upon Theon's wrist, tapping in rhythm, feeling the pulse beneath the skin. _You are alive,_ he says, or thinks, sometimes he cannot tell, just as he cannot tell what that means. He takes two of Theon's fingers and guides them to his own wrist, knowing Theon will feel the blood better than he can.

Theon's hand twitches; instinct tells him to hide his fingers out of shame, but he fights it back, as the fingers were not his crime, he has no need to be ashamed of them. Bran should smile at that, and so he does. Hesitantly, Theon smiles back, managing to keep his eyes meeting Bran's, even as Bran guides his fingers away from his wrist and to his neck instead.

It is more intimate, this, Bran thinks as he tilts his head back to reveal his throat; he leaves himself exposed. Theon hesitates. “We shouldn't,” he mutters, but it is a different _we_ he speaks of, two boys raised under the same roof, all but brothers, one who turned on the other and cast him into the ice. His hand does not move away, and Bran holds it.

“You will not hurt me,” he says, nothing but a fact. “And I will not hurt you.”

Theon nods, though Bran knows he does not understand how Bran could forgive him. Forgiveness is not what it is. He knows there was a part of him that would have wanted vengeance on Theon; he remembers the anger he felt when he saw Theon through the trees, and the pity also, when he reached out. But he does not feel those things anymore. He could, he believes, they are in him somewhere, but so is everything else, every feeling there's ever been. He can feel everything or nothing. Both make him mad, but this madness is not an obstacle.

His skin must be warm against Theon's, but he felt more through the weirwoods. He takes Theon's hand to his mouth, kissing the scarred flesh. The feelings he does not have must be more kind than cruel, he must want Theon to feel better. This does not make sense as an act of vengeance.

He only knows these things by rote, by having seen, as he left the world before he could learn them in practice. He pulls Theon forward so he can kiss him on the lips, as he knows he should. He knows it is not good, but that is not the point – for Theon, the fact it is a kiss is enough. Slowly, Theon grows brave enough that control slips to him, the skill practiced on maids and mothers across the north, thought long dead, returning in Bran's mouth.

Bran lies back upon the bed. He must want to feel again. He must think this would be cathartic for the griefs locked away inside him with the griefs of all the men he's never met. Theon looks fearful as he follows Bran's lead, lingering above him, the memory of being used for such things always with him. Bran strokes his jaw softly. “You do not have to,” he says. “You know that.”

“I know.” And Theon smiles, a ghost of his old self. “But I want to.”

Bran sighs as Theon falls down on him, his mouth fixing upon his neck. Robb's ghost lies in the bed with them, he knows that – it was Robb Theon loved and wanted, but he was not brave enough to admit it. But Robb is long gone, and Bran is what is left; he carries the souls of every man whose ever lived with him. Robb lived.

Theon remains there a long time, long enough he feels the flesh ache, sees the mark blossom into a bruise across the next few days – his skin still records such things. A leg, trembling, comes between his own, but Bran knows his body does not respond as it should. He takes Theon's hand again. “Here.” Bran guides him, shows him he must rub hard and fast to earn a stirring. His broken body can still feel, just. Theon's fear returns at how violently he must move, but Bran keeps his eye fixed. “You will not hurt me.” The Three-Eyed Raven speaks nothing but truth.

He doesn't speak after that, letting his mind go somewhere, everywhere else as Theon finishes him. Once he is done, Theon does not ask for, does not think of his own pleasure, does not think there's any point. This is his pleasure, to be wanted again, and to atone, to make some sort of right with the boy he hurt more than anyone left alive. Bran allows him that. He need not know how little Bran can gain from this.

His seed lays across the dead wolf that warms his bed. He is surrounded by life, he contains life. He does not live.

Theon sighs and kisses his brow. Bran thinks of his mother a moment. “Thank you,” he says, and Bran cannot reply, courtesy as lost to him as anything else. Theon moves as if to stand, and Bran catches his wrist.

“You may stay the night, if you like,” he says. “We all need warmth during winter.”

Theon smiles as widely as he ever did. Bran tries to remember what it's like to be that happy. Theon falls asleep in his bed, curling against his body, his own battered and broken, but still, alive.

Bran wonders if what he does not feel is envy.


End file.
